There was a silence which lasted some minutes. The wood fire crackled, and the lamp illumined the comfortable room with its fifteenth-century beams overhead, its panelled walls and its red-covered sofa and chairs. “Anne Page is not a woman to fool with,” said François at last. He was thinking of what she had once said, sitting in the sunshine of the garden. “_Then an artist ought to keep out of the way of any woman who cares. But he wouldn’t if she pleased him._” The memory of the last words touched him. “She’s not made for that sort of thing. It’s not decent. It’s not playing the game. Leave her alone, and she’ll forget.” Even as he spoke, he wondered whether he spoke truth; but that was a question to be dismissed with a mental shrug. “I dare say she’s got nothing to forget,” returned René gloomily. “I’ve no doubt she thinks I’m just a ridiculous young fool.” François did not reply. “Women are strange things,” pursued René presently. “They alter so. Anne has grown years younger,--and years older since we first saw her. She manages us now. Have you noticed?” He turned to the other man with a quick smile. “She couldn’t have done that at first. She was too shy, and--what’s the word?--diffident. And yet at first, did she seem a woman to fall in love with? I never thought of it. I believe we all looked upon her as an interesting creature, and thought ourselves rather fine fellows for discovering her beauty,--which perhaps doesn’t exist at all. She was something to paint, something to discuss----” “Something to teach,” added François slowly. He glanced at the clock. “Come along! Do you see the time? And we’ve got to start at seven to-morrow.” He got up, and put his pipe in his pocket. “The art of life, my dear young friend,” he remarked with burlesque sententiousness, as he turned out the lamp, “is to manage one’s episodes carefully. And to see that they remain episodes.” René did not reply. He remained seated in the armchair, after the light was out, staring at the still leaping fire. XIV Three days after Mrs. Burbage went away, Anne received a telegram, summoning her at once to London. The hours spent in travelling, and reaching the nursing-home, passed like an uneasy nightmare, with a background of dread to be realized, and by the time she arrived at the house in Wimpole Street, her friend was unconscious. She died a few minutes after Anne was admitted to her bedside. Of the time that followed, Anne had no clear idea. She felt dazed and uncomprehending, and when by the end of the week, she found herself back again in the silent house at Dymfield, it was to wonder vaguely how she had arrived, and in what a solicitor’s letter which awaited her, could possibly concern her. The writer, who signed himself William Chaplin, expressed his intention of calling upon her next day, on business. Anne received him the following afternoon, standing before the fire in the library, very slim and tall in her black dress.